


The Call of the Ocean

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: Jaskier goes to the coast, and spends much too long reflecting on the nature of the ocean, before a familiar figure arrives to disrupt his peace.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 63





	The Call of the Ocean

The ocean is not what he had expected.

The ocean is a beast.

He finds it is a wild, snarling thing, as ferocious and deadly as any other monster he has met before.

It churns. It twists and turns, spilling over itself in some strange, violent dance.

And he is memorised by it. By each move, each twist and swell and turn. Trying to find the patterns, guess what happens next, unable to predict its ever shifting moves.

It is dangerous. Deep and deadly.

Even from shore he can feel the danger, sand picked up as the wind lashes out, rubbing exposed skin, red and raw and damaged. Saltwater spray stings at the eyes, at the skin, stabbing needles of ice beaten against his body. Water soaked into cloth, stuck to his skin, the unavoidable scent of the ocean, of saltwater, seaweed and rot already sunk in deep.

And yet he can’t look away. And yet it calls to him all the same.

Churning and deadly as it is.

It wraps its way around his heart and _tugs_ pulling him onward. Right up to the edges, corner of his boots kissed by the spray as it beckons him on further, feeling as though it is tugging at his very soul.

He thinks, sometimes, how easy it would be to follow the call. To walk into the waves, let them swell around him, over him. Swallow him down, legs swept clean out from beneath him, body carried out to sea, never to be seen again.

It would be ever so easy to lose yourself in that violent, churning mass. Let the ocean sink its teeth into you and swallow you whole, dragged down into the depths. Down below the churning madness, to the empty, cold blue that lay beneath.

Then the salt spray catches him across the face. Leaves him soaked, spluttering, spitting saltwater from between his lips, feeling it drip down his cheeks, following well carved tear tracks.

He spits. Splutters. Remembering the cost of the ocean’s bite. Feeling the chill deep in his bones.

At times like these it is too cold for him. Too cruel. An icy bite that seems to steal any warmth a man has about his body, leave him nothing but a frozen, shivering husk.

The water is grey at these times. Grey and dark and murky. It reminds him almost of a dead man’s skin. Or the skin of a beast, of a being that has no right to exist.

It is grey and cold and deadly.

And yet, looking back, risking a final glance over his shoulder as he turns, a final, longing stare out a cabin window, he manages to catch the final glint of sunlight, playing across the churning mess. Sees it sparkle. Sees it dance.

He feels the pull, tugging in his chest once more, and part of him can’t help but wonder if the bite of the water may be worth it, to be swallowed by the sea.

But then it is not always a churning, ferocious beast. He does not think he would have stayed as long as he has if it was. If the ocean was all bite and nothing else. He would not have let himself settle, find himself building habits, walking familiar paths along cliff tops as he bounced his way along the shoreline, sea town to sea town, the coin alone not nearly enough to justify the decision to stay.

No, sometimes the ocean is calm.

Sometimes it is soft. It is gentle, lapping at his heels on a bright summer day, beckoning him closer, warm water gentle against his skin. Calling him onwards, until wet toes become wet ankles, wet knees, bottoms of his trousers rolled up but still not quite fully out of reach.

Sun glints on the water, half blinding him if he looks too hard, glittering in his eyes as he stares out at the sea.

Soft waves kiss his skin, water splashing up, salt soaking into fabric, not that he minds.

It is wondrously soft.

Soft but strong, the bite never fully gone, still there in the tug of the current, pulling on his legs, not enough to topple him, but more than enough to say hello. The sudden sharp jab of cold, a pocket of ice hidden amongst the warmth. A reminder of the strength, the danger that lays below tranquillity, still tugging to drag him out to sea.

When he drags himself from the waves, he wanders the shoreline, picks through the rubble to find treasures and trinkets, shells, strung up in a line, a coin or two, if he is lucky.

Toes sinking into the sand, gentle and kind against his skin.

He breaths it in, the heat, rising off the sand, the sweet, salty touch of the ocean, bright on his tongue. Lets soft eyes fall shut, feel the warmth of the sun against his skin.

He does not know how long he will stay. Does not know how long he can stay. Until the coin runs too low to even scrape by, pushes him back inland. Until he gives in to the siren call of the sea, lets himself drift out, into the depth.

Part of him almost thinks that perhaps he will stay forever.

And perhaps he would have.

If it hadn’t been for the man on the beach, armour shining in the fading light of the late afternoon.

The man.

Almost.

Almost a man, almost a beast.

The painfully familiar figure, stood out on the shore, staring into the horizon.

The Witcher looked so strangely out of place, here on the sand. All harsh edges, rough and _wrong,_ heavy boots sunk deep in the sand, dark against the light of the world around him.

He swallows. Legs suddenly heavy. Half a mind to turn and leave. ~~Turn and run~~. But he was not one to run, and his cabin room lies beyond, the small soft space, warm and comfortable. 

He supposes he could just sneak past, slide along the top of the sand and scramble past, not engage with the man. If only his feet hadn’t already carried him forward, deposited him beside the Witcher, staring out at the slow setting sun.

He doesn’t stand as close as he once would have. Doesn’t enter the Witcher’s space, hovering instead on the edges, unsure and uncomfortable in a way he isn’t much used to, and he doesn’t much enjoy.

Geralt doesn’t respond to him, if he didn’t know the Witcher better he might have thought the man wasn’t even aware of his presence.

But then Geralt sighs, in that heavy way he knows too well, a little too deep, little too solid.

He wants to say something. He wants to ask why. To scream and shout and rip the man’s heart out. But he knows he will not. He still has some dignity left, and he will not give that up to _Geralt._

So instead he stands.

They stand. Staring at the sea.

It is the Witcher who breaks the silence, Geralt hums, head tilting to the side, face a blank, considering frown. “it’s… nice.”

He hums in answer, staring out across the water, yes, it is nice.

It is nice and still and quiet. Land where men spent more time fighting the elements than each other.

Not the sort of place one expects to find a Witcher, raising the question of _why._

A drop of hope bubbles up in his chest, a possibility, slim but slight, “are you here for…”

Geralt’s frown deepens, “there was trouble in the area, nest of sirens, picking off the local fishers.”

Right. of course. Not here for him then, although… “I haven’t heard talk of any attacks.”

Geralt grunts, shrugs, “it was a few towns over, hadn’t reached this far up yet.”

The bubble grows again, “… then what are you doing here?”

The Witcher sighs again. Tired and heavy, mouth hangs open for a moment before he speaks, as though he has to drag out the words “… I may have heard talk of a foolish bard, wandering the seaside, annoying the locals.”

“ANNOYING the locals-”

Geralt smirks at that, “mmm moping along the shoreline, scrounging around for coin.”

He snorts, only half humorous, “so, you decided to come deal with the situation.”

Geralt shrugs again, “just doing my job.” He doesn’t miss the smile playing on Geralt’s lips with that. The soft curve upwards, quiet and half hidden.

He snorts. Lets himself feel the humour for a second, “is that your job now? Dealing with sa-” he cuts himself off before he can finish the word, admit to the tinge of sorrow wrapped around his heart. He swallows it down, tries again, “troublesome bards just trying to make a living?”

Geralt hums again, avoids the question, “they say you’ve been… around for a while.”

He nods at that. It’s true, he has. But it is nice. It is calm yet wild, comfortably familiar in its kindness, in its _bite_. The ocean speaks to him, to his aching soul.

“planning to stay much longer?”

He shrugs, not knowing the answer, not knowing if he would want to give it if he did know, “does it matter if I do?”

Geralt grunts, shrugs. “I heard something else in the taverns.”

“mmm?”

“word is… if you are out too late, out on a clear night… sometimes you can hear a tune, carried across the sea.” Geralt risks a glance over at him, but he does not respond, “a sad, dreary tune.” Geralt shifts, eyes flicking around, uncertain in a way the Witcher rarely shows, nervous. “They say it is enough to bring a tear to any mans’ eye.”

He swallows. Shrugs, offers an offhand, “I don’t know anything about that.” The words come out more half choked then he intended, half stuck in his throat, dry and burning.

Geralt nods at that, eyes returning to the horizon. To the vast, stretching expanse before them.

He can feel the weight between them now. Pressing down on them, heavy, stifling.

He wants to say something else, ask Geralt why he followed the stories up the shore, to his current little hideaway. He wants to turn, sharply on a deep heel pushed into the sand. Turn and leave, ignore the space between them. he wants to dive forward, let unsure legs carry him on, into the waves, the water, the depths beyond.

Beside him Geralt sighs again, shoulders shifting, a heavy rise and fall. “I-” Geralt pauses, words catching between his lips once more, “I- I’m sorry. Jaskier.”

He sucks in a breath. Quick and cold and sharp. Turning the words over in his mind. Half unsure he had even heard it correctly, “ _I’m sorry.”_ He hadn’t expected it, to hear them, so simple and soft, in the air. He hadn’t even bothered to think of it, when he had imagined this moment.

Hadn’t imagined an apology when thinking of this moment. He had imagined…

A blunt reunion in a crowded tavern. Perhaps a scattering of words shared over a drink, an opening, offered willingly or determinedly found… and then… and then nothing. And then they would have moved on. Continued on as they always had.

He hadn’t expected an apology, certainly not one given so easily. So clearly. Gods…

He swallows. Mind swimming, he wasn’t prepared for this. He doesn’t know how to respond to such words. Part of him wants to say, it’s okay, it doesn’t matter, it’s _fine_. But it isn’t. it wasn’t. He was ready to shove it down, ignore it and not address it. That he could do, but… lie, lie and say it’s fine? That he can’t do.

He swallows again. Swallows down the choking nerves and stares out at the sea. At the soft waves breaking against the shore. The soft roll of water, folding over itself and spilling up, over the sand, edging towards their toes.

He can’t say it is fine. He doesn’t want to say _nothing_. He opens his mouth. Closes it. takes a breath. breathes in with the waves, breathes in the sea.

He licks dry lips, tasting the salt on his skin, and says, “thank you.”

Thank you for coming. Thank you for finding me. For showing, that at least on some level, you care, for soft words he never thought he would hear, never thought he could here, _thank you_.

Geralt grunts. Hands twisting, face not giving away the tension in the Witcher’s body. The nerves, clear in the man’s tense shoulders, arms held tight, stress he only sees because of how well he knows the man.

Geralt nods, offers a quiet, stumbled “thank you,” in return, almost too low to hear.

He nods as well, again. Sharp and certain, “so what now?”

Geralt shrugs, a pause, “… I’ve heard a story… word is there’s cockatrice terrorising folks not more than a week’s ride from here…”

“A cockatrice?”

Geralt nods.

“mmm you know I’ve never seen a cockatrice before?”

Geralt snorts, “good. You shouldn’t much want to.”

He laughs at that, a real, bright thing, “and if I do want to?”

Geralt shrugs, “I leave tomorrow.”

Its an invitation. Or as close to one he will ever get.

Tomorrow.

He wonders if he would like to leave so soon.

A wave breaks on the sand with more force than its friends and he wonders if the ocean will let him. If it will let go of his tangled heart so easily.

Tomorrow. _~~Or never.~~_

He takes a deep breath. Breathes in the salt. Rolls tired shoulders, feeling them stretch, watching the sun begin to dip down, below the horizon, it would be night soon, “you know, it gets cold here, after nightfall.”

Geralt hums, “is that so? I should probably find a room for the night.”

“-I already have a room- a cabin.” He pauses, giving it a breath before saying, “it’s small but there’s a couch or…” another breath, a quick lick of the lips, comfortable confidence slipping back into his bones, “the beds quite large, if you’re interested.”

Geralt smiles a real smile at that, lips turned up, face split into a gentle grin, “a room huh?”

“A cabin.”

“A cabin.” Geralt nods. “well, it would only save on coin to share.”

He smiles back at the words, at the easy acceptance. It felt so… simple.

Geralt nods again. Half turns towards him, in a, ‘well lets go then’ sort of way.

He takes another breath first. Lets his eyes fall shut for a moment and listen to the crash of the ocean, the hit of the waves across the sand. Breathes in the wonder of the waves one more time.

He lets heavy eyes fall open. Nods again, sure and certain.

He turns to Geralt, turns from the crash of the waves, the spray of saltwater, the call of the sea.

He lets himself leave. Lets heavy feet fall across the sand, lets the soft sound of the ocean fade into nothingness in the back of his mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading!-


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